The Boy in the Snow
by Mzzmarie
Summary: In the spring of 1632, the melting snow reveals a horrible mystery. The Musketeers see the work of monster, and the monster sees them... multi-chapter, gruesome at times! ***D'artagnan WHUMP and Aramis WHUMP and just a lot of whump and hurts in general. Thou hast been warned ;)
1. Chapter 1

**Multi-chapter mystery. Not for the faint of heart! Gruesome at times, lots of whump to follow.**

**PLEASE REVIEW !**

_**I do not own the BBC Musketeers - I just love them and Dumas' world :)**_

In the spring of 1632, the winter snow that had blanketed Paris for weeks began to thaw. The wet cobblestone of the street was once again visible and the fetid straw piled at doorsteps to catch the drifting snow could be done away with. It was indeed spring in Paris, and after such a miserable winter, it was most welcomed by the people. The mood was lighter in the streets, the tankards of ale tasted that much sweeter. Like a lumbering bear just waking up from its' hibernation, all of Paris was slowly stretching it's limbs and awakening…all but one.

He had been sleeping all winter, huddled beneath the snow. He was sitting up against a tree on a quiet road on the outskirts of the city. In the summer, that road was busy with carts travelling to and from the markets to the farms, but in the winter, it was virtually impassable. So there he sat beneath the tree, undisturbed and unnoticed for the winter, that is until the snow began to thaw and reveal his somber, grey visage.

The farmers who discovered him dared not disturb him from his untimely rest. They looked down upon him with sadness and pity – yet another street boy, perished in the elements. The world was a cruel place, they mused, and one of the men bent down and sought to cover the boy with the sodden cloak that lay uselessly behind him. Upon moving the cloak, a sparkle of gold thread sparkled in the sunlight – the royal insignia. This was no poor boy – and upon closer inspection, his clothes although worn and dank from exposure, were actually quite fine. And so, the lad was reported to local guard station.

The Red Guards rolled their eyes.

"We'll send a cart round," they assured the farmers. But the farmers stressed the royal insignia, and it was then that one of the guards, who had been watching grey clouds roll in from the north, had a most dastardly revelation.

"Well if he's royalty, then by all means, call Treville. He's always harpin' at us to not step on their fancy boots, so let the Musketeers go get the whelp!"

News took a day to reach Treville, and that was interrupted by another dusting of snow. Captain Treville was not angered by the fact that the Red Guards were so obviously passing off work to the Musketeers – he was furious however, that a Parisian lad had been found dead in the snow, and then left to sit there and wait for someone to fetch him.

"He's been sittin' there all bloody winter – doubt if an extra day makes a difference, Treville," sighed the guard.

"Remove yourself from this place! You do dishonor to it simply by being near it's walls you cur!," shouted Treville, as his thrust a gloved hand towards the door.

The guard and his companion sneered, but wisely opted not to anger the Captain any further and took their leave. On the way out, they tipped their hats mockingly towards the group of Musketeers seated on a table at the base of the stairs – D'artagnan, Porthos, and Athos.

"Good day ladies," cooed one of the guards, clearly looking for a fight. And a fight was not a difficult thing to find with Porthos, who sprang from the table, fists clenched with D'artganan pulling on his arm. But Athos paid no mind to the Red Guards– instead his gaze wandered up the stairs to wear an angry-looking Treville was leaning on the bannister.

And this was how Athos came to learn about the dead boy in the snow outside of Paris who wore a cloak of the royal insignia.

"Take a cart and go and get him Athos, and take Aramis – the lad could use a prayer," muttered Treville.

The garrison has been slow lately, with not many affairs of court being conducted in lieu of the poor weather. It was a grim task, but Athos welcomed the opportunity to get fresh air and hopefully show the boy's spirit a shred of decency.

The mission however, was a somber one. And upon hearing of their charge, Porthos and D'artagnan insisted that they accompany their brothers if Treville could spare them. Treville begrudgingly accepted and advised them to make haste. And so the brothers made their way to the market road, and to the sleeping boy, frozen in the snow.

Unknown to the Musketeers who came to rescue him from his open grave, and unknown to the Captain who sent them on their way, the boy was not alone. In fact, there had been seven other young men before him, but they had all been poor and without familial connections, and therefore when they were found frozen in the streets, so one paid them mind aside from he occasional look of pity.

It was the local churches who sent forth the clergy to collect the bodies of the poor who did not survive the winter months – they were stacked albeit ceremoniously, on a cart and buried in parish graves when no names could be found. And as they had no cloaks bearing a royal insignia – their tragic fates and all of their secrets ended in the churchyard, and not once did anyone suspect anything beyond the cruelty of winter for ending their young lives.

However, had a doctor examined the bodies of these young men of the east-market district, he would have found a most curious thing indeed – their eyes, gone. The sockets horribly hollow.

Not all buried under nameless crosses in the churchyard had died of natural causes that harsh winter – most had, but not all. And perhaps they would have stayed that way – quiet in death and unable to see beyond in to the next world, had the snow not began to melt when it did. But now, as the Musketeers neared the market road, a horrible mystery was about to unfold for his features has began to thaw as well – the ice slipping from his ashen, taunt skin. He remained slumped against the base of the tree, his knees curled up unto his chest. But soon it would become clear that the last thing the lad had seen in this world was a monster and now all that was left were gaping hollow sockets, starring through frozen lashes down the road where four musketeers approached on horseback.

_**Lots more to come - the plot will thicken! Rating may go up. Please review and let me know what you think! Luv, Mzz**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank-you**** for the reviews, follows and favourites! **

**Huge shout out to Happyday Gir****l**** and Thorny Hedge! Please check out their stories – they're incredible! Happyday Girl's story: ****_Blink of an Eye_****, is a must-read for Musketeer FF ****J**

**Ok, loooong chapter, but I needed to establish a lot of details :S . As always, I do not own the Musketeers – I just love playing in Dumas' world ****J**

Porthos had insisted that he take Aramis' place on the trek to the market road. He had his reasons, and Athos suspected what they may be. D'artagnan however, bless his naive heart, didn't think for a second that Porthos could have had a reason for trying to convince Aramis to stay, and rather further insisted the Musketeers of the need for someone skilled with scripture.

"Well you can say a prayer if you like, Porthos, but I think Aramis would be far better suited to speak," noted D'artagnan.

"Brat," growled Porthos.

"What?"

"Nothing." But was paying keen attention to the odd instance of his friend, and had heard the retired pirate muttering curses at D'artagnan's persistent interruptions.

"Porthos my friend, what has gotten in to you? I assure you, I would feel at ease to say a few words," said Aramis from atop his horse. "Besides, the weather has improved significantly - it would be a pleasant day to visit the countryside, even if the cause for our venture is most regrettably unpleasant."

Porthos rolled his eyes signifying his defeat, and grumbled to himself as he too got on to his horse. Aramis regarded him with a quizzical brow, still confused as to why Porthos would have insisted that stay behind.

Athos however, only sighed at the pirate's resignation - he knew he wouldn't be successful in convincing Aramis to stay behind, but he admired that he had at least tried. Porthos' heart was a big as hands and he cared deeply for his friends. Ever since the tragedy that befell their friend in Savoy six years prior, the retired-pirate has been increasingly protective over his friend; not in lieu of battle or of violence or duty, but of ..._reminders _of that tragic day. Athos had no doubt that Porthos' protectiveness had been triggered the minute that Treville had mentioned a "body in the snow". It had been six years since Savoy, yet for the friends who found him surrounded by the frozen corpses of twenty Musketeers; a chill wind could make it feel like yesterday.

Athos watched as D'artagnan rode in front of Aramis as if to challenge him to a race, which had Aramis slowly shaking his head. Athos couldn't see his friend's face as he was trotting at an even pace behind them, but he knew the expression, and Athos smiled to himself.

D'artagnan bounced around at the front of the group with a boundless energy not even explicable to youth. It was not long ago that the lad from Gascony had blown in to the garrison like a windstorm, but all fresh air that was most welcomed. D'artagnan had not seen Savoy and nor had he known Aramis before the massacre, and Athos was glad for it.

There had been many a time that Porthos and Athos would fret over the strange and erratic sleep patterns that would plague Aramis as a result of trauma and nightmares, or cast worried glances back and forth when their Spanish friend would drift off during a conversation and be momentarily lost in a waking nightmare. D'artagnan however, would pay them no mind. Every time he caught Aramis 'adrift' he would jokingly try to poke his eye or take his tankard of ale, and all much to Porthos' amusement. In fact, D'artagnan would walk directly in to their concern and unknowingly change the subject entirely. It was indeed irksome at times for he and Porthos, but the group's leader knew that Aramis appreciated it - D'artagnan's indifference made him feel normal.

Athos' thoughts were interrupted by D'artagnan's raised voice, seemingly pleading with Aramis over a heated issue.

"Well it isn't fair at all 'Mis! In fact it's absurd!" stated D'artagnan, almost pouting but still unable to hide a smirk. "I mean, where _does it say_ I cannot have a feather in my hat? What rule is this you speak of?"

Aramis let out an dramatic sigh, "My dear fellow, it is not so much a rule as it is a law of nature. In order to don a feather in one's cap, a man must be able to first produce a beard...or a mustache _at the very least_."

D'artagnan's face dropped and Porthos, who had ridden up beside his friend let out a howl of laughter, slapping Aramis on the back.

"Oiy that's true D'art!" laughed Porthos. The look of D'artagnan's face was priceless, and even Athos couldn't suppress a grin.

D'artagnan consistently walked in to Aramis and Porthos' jibes - and by the mischievous smirk on his face, Athos could swear that on certain occasions he did so on purpose.

The remainder of the ride to the market path was spent in jest and casual conversation. As was very customary to their effortless dynamic, Athos rode to the side of the trio, listening to them laugh and discuss matters of the garrison. The mood was light and the weather was fair, but Athos couldn't shake a foreboding chill that clung to his bones as they turned on to the deserted market road. The mud was deep in sections on account of the melting snow, and as such the road remained empty for the time being.

Athos felt exposed on the road, and he cast his eyes about the tree lines, feeling as though he was being watched. But there was not a sound to be heard aside from his comrades' conversation, which had also quieted considerably as if sensing whatever plagued Athos' nerves.

"He should be along this road facing east," announced Athos. Out of pure habit, all of the three Musketeers to his right slowed and let their leader proceed ahead of them, all of their eyes now scanning the tree line. A north wind suddenly brushed past them, ruffling their capes and it brought with them a foul smell. Athos knew that smell all too well.

D'artagnan crinkled his nose and turned his horse slightly from the wind. "Ugh, rotten goods I suppose? That's wretched."

"No D'art, something far more wretched than spoilt vegetables carries on this wind," muttered Porthos, who cast a wary glance at Athos. Aramis remained quiet, his keen eyes still searching for the boy.

They trotted a distance further until Aramis stopped them.

"There, Athos. I think I see him," said Aramis pointing over to an old tree that stood at the roadside, next to a deep ditch.

Athos saw him next - a small figure hunched forward at an odd angle against the base of tree. Nature had done her best to give the lad some privacy in death, and turned him much the same color of the surrounding brush. It was a wonder that the farmers had even noticed him - he was truly camouflaged to all but Aramis' hawk-like eyes.

Now the entire group looked to where Aramis pointed, and they stopped their horses on the road. There was an unplanned moment of silence as the nature of their mission finally dawned upon each and every one of them.

After a moment, Athos nudged his horse, "Right, on with it," he muttered, and lead the group forward.

All of the men on the road that day had seen their share of violence and death. It was an intrinsic part of their lives. So there was so fear or trepidation approaching the body - only sadness and curiosity. And truth be told, the boy looked rather peaceful. His chin was resting on his chest - a mass of black wavy hair rustling in the breeze. His arms had fallen to his side, but it looked as though he was at one point holding his knees.

"Trying to keep warm perhaps?" suggested D'artagnan, his eyes full of sadness.

"Perhaps," replied Aramis, who dismounted but not before Porthos went ahead of him and knelt next to the body.

"Small fellow, but I would wager he's around 16. And will ya look at that," mumbled Porthos as he reached for the cloak that swept about the boy's shoulders, "The Royal insignia. His clothes are good but they aren't royal. Probably worked at the court?"

"Aye Porthos," said Athos, removing a document from his saddlebag. "Treville noted that there was a servant of the recent employ of the palace last year - a kitchen boy." Athos scanned the document further before finding what he was looking for - a name. "Pierre Desrocheres of Paris, employed in the kitchen. Sent with papers to collect geese from the market in December of last year, never to return".

The Musketeers absorbed the information. "Well did they look for him?" asked D'artagnan, unable to hide his disappointment.

Athos shook his head, and Porthos answered for him without even having to look at the document.

"Doubt it," sighed the pirate. "He was probably an orphan - of no previous fixed address. They probably cared more about not having the geese for the table."

Athos sighed heavily, breathing through his nose. Porthos was right - had he not returned promptly, his position would have been filled the next day.

Aramis had been listening to the whole discourse while examining the boy from a few meters back. He then quickly walked to Porthos' side.

"While life may not have treated him fairly, or with any measure of kindness, but we are all equal in the eyes of god," stated Aramis, bending down to one knee. "He deserves a proper burial.

"Indeed," nodded Athos. "D'artagnan, fetch the cloth and blankets." D'artagnan gave a swift nod and went about gathering the supplies to wrap the body.

Porthos had removed his hat next to Aramis as his friend whispered a series of prayers, his hand resting lightly atop the boy's bent head. As he prayed, Aramis noticed that the boy's eyes were not entirely closed. He continued to read from his bible, and then lifted the boys chin so as to finally close his eyes in death. The gasp that escaped the Spaniard immediately had everyone's attention.

With his face now turned skyward, it was clear that the boy's body was gruesomely devoid of its' eyes.

Aramis tried to compose himself, but the damage was done - the horrible memories of Savoy had been savagely triggered. Porthos clutched his friend's shoulders and eased him back, all the while silently assessing the situation with Athos.

And with everyone shocked in to silence, it was up to D'artagnan to state the obvious.

"Where are his eyes?!" cried the Gascon. "What happened to his eyes?"

Aramis had stood up and paced a small distance away from the body, obviously troubled. Athos approached the boy now, and kneeled down next to Porthos. Sure enough, all that looked upward were too gaping and horribly empty sockets. And suddenly there was no peace about this boy or his passing. His expression now looked to be one of pure horror.

In the pensive silence that followed, D'artagnan had slowly approached Athos and Porthos to stand behind them; Aramis was still pacing off to the side.

D'artagnan couldn't hide the dismay from his expressive features as he looked at the corpse's disfigured face.

"Well that's….unpleasant," mumbled the youngest Musketeer. "Crows are disgusting."

Porthos sighed, "Aye, they'll eat anything. Boy must have died with his eyes open…"

"It was not crows," snapped Aramis, interrupting Porthos mid-sentence. He hadn't uttered a word since stepping away, so now he had everyone's attention. Aramis removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.

"It was not crows. Crows are not …_precise_ in their meals," sighed Aramis, his voice notably shaken. "Crows would have left scratches about the eye sockets, and much more damage to the face. This was done intentionally. Note the small slicing cuts around the eyelids. My friends, this was done with surgical precision _and intent_."

Porthos sighed and rubbed his face, weary with the weight of Aramis' words, while Athos' expression remained stone-faced as he undoubtedly considered the group's next move. And as for D'artagnan, faced with the silence that now weighed upon them, well, he simply couldn't help himself.

"But are you _certain_ 'Mis?"

The exasperated sigh that left Athos and Porthos was audible. Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to consider an appropriate response, but Aramis spoke for himself.

"Because I have seen it before…for myself. I know the difference," muttered Aramis, walking away.

Porthos was glaring knives at D'artagnan and by the time it dawned on the youngest as to the memories that Aramis was referring to, he looked so hurt and guilt-ridden that Athos actually felt bad for him.

"'Mis I'm sorry, I did not.."

But Aramis waved him off, and gave him a sad grin.

"Worry not, my friend" smiled Aramis, "let us focus on the task at hand. We need to move the body to a place where we can examine the corpse further prior to burial."

Athos agreed and stood up, brushing some of the mud off his breeches. "Aramis is right. There is an apothecary to the west, not far from here. D'artagnan, ride to the Apothecary and secure a cart – he will undoubtedly have the tools and supplies that we may need. Porthos, with me," ordered Athos, gesturing towards the blankets. Porthos was visibly enthusiastic to assist Athos, as it meant that Aramis would be spared he task. But Aramis almost looked rather offended that he was not included in Athos' address, and turned sharply on his heels, stalking back towards the horses.

...And so consumed he was in his misplaced anger towards Athos, that the one they called Aramis never looked towards the trees on the other side of the road, where a pair of dark eyes had been watching them the entire time.

_**Reviews are sincerely appreciated! ****_


	3. Chapter 03 -- D'artagnan

_**THANK-YOU for the reviews! They really helped me in finishing this chapter – I had a major case of writer's block but I should be good now! ;)**_

**_Onwards…._**

D'artagnan cursed himself as he snapped his head back and forth. His horse stood, stamping in place at the intersection between four tiny cobblestone side streets. Athos definitely had not been specific in his direction but then again D'artagnan had figured that like most of these small villages that outlined Paris, there were usually only three streets at most – so how hard could it be to find an apothecary? But D'artagnan had now been trotting about in circles while suspicious villagers peaked out their shutters at the stranger in their town-square. For a fleeting moment, the young Gascon considered riding back to the country road to confirm directions with Athos, but immediately reconsidered – _the young one getting lost in a town with four streets?_ Porthos and 'Mis would never let him live it down.

'Stupid town, apothecary…_how hard can it be_?' grumbled D'artagnan. A bitter wind had picked up and was now biting at his neck. He hunched his shoulders and turned his collar up to try and block the wind. D'artagnan sighed and opted to try the street to his left…one more time.

Seven wrong turns later, D'artagnan was thoroughly miserable. He was riding back towards his brothers on the country road, and there was certainly no cart in tow. He was running through a litany of jokes that he knew Aramis and Porthos would undoubtedly never let him live down for returning empty-handed. He was about to turn on to the country road, when he saw a snow-covered lane on the right that wound it's way up to a rather dilapidated looking farm house. He was about to pass by when he noticed a wooden sign lying in the snow under a post, perhaps blown down by the wind. The sign read, _Butcher_, in neatly painted green letters, and underneath as a sort of subtitle was scrawled, _Apothecary_.

D'artagnan couldn't believe his luck to have seen the sign, and so close to the road where the poor boy's body lay frozen! He had initially ridden right past the place, and with due cause as the sign was down. Now he turned his steed on to the laneway and charged towards the farm.

D'artagnan tethered his horse to a nearby post, and approached the small farm house. He surveyed the surroundings – a long, low barn sat behind the house, most likely for swine. The winter had been hard to the property, and very little had been done. The window boxes of the small house remained dank with dead plants and flowers from long ago.

"Hello? Hello? I seek the apothecary!" D'artagnan called out, so as to not offend and surprise the proprietor should he be in the barn and not the house. But there was no answer. D'artagnan approached the small stone house, and peered through the cloudy windows. Much to his surprise, the interior of these house was by no means a reflections of its' dilapidated exterior. The furnishings were what one would expect from a farm – sparse and simple. But it was tidy, and appeared well kept inside.

Towards the back of the house, a beautiful rainbow had momentarily mesmerized D'artagnan – after using his glove to clean the glass further, the Gascon discerned that it was from the setting sun reflecting through dozens of beautiful vials and bottles that were stacked on shelves. The proprietor must have run his apothecary business from the back of his home, mused D'artagnan, still captivated by the beautiful dancing colours.

"To what do I owe the honour?"

The voice came from directly over D'artagnan's right shoulder, and to say that he nearly jumped from his boots was an understatement. D'artagnan leapt from the window, and whirled about to see an elderly gentleman with a kind face. The man smiled at him, and D'artagnan blushed deeply. He felt as though he had just been caught spying on a pretty girl! The man chuckled when he saw D'artagnan's cheeks go crimson red.

"You mentioned you were looking for an apothecary. You found him."

D'artagnan swept down into a bow and then extended his hand, "Monsieur forgive me – I was checking to see if someone was home, and then I…" stammered D'artagnan, but the man simply waved off his apology.

"No mind! I was out in the barn trying to finish up a few chores. What brings you here?"

"Unfortunate business, sir. My companions are at the next road over, where we have been notified by the Guard that a boy's body lay frozen in the snow. My companions seek a cart and to take the body here for further inspection."

The man nodded slowly, absorbing all of the information with a look of sadness. He stood quiet for a moment, and ran a weathered hand through his greying hair.

"Mon dieu," sighed the man, crossing himself. "Well of course, of course, I shall help. I had heard rumors from some of the other farmers but I had hoped them not be true."

"Unfortunately they are true. My companions have secured the body; we just need adequate transport and facilities. I assure you we will compensate you for your time, and try not to take too much of it!" insisted D'artagnan.

"Nonsense, nonsense, this is a pressing matter, I will be happy to assist. And you mentioned that there were three companions? I do not mean to be nosy, but why such a large party of Guards?"

"We are not Guards sir," stated D'artagnan with an air of pride, "we are Musketeers. The body was wearing clothing that bore the royal insignia, and so we were sent forth."

"Musketeers!" My goodness, an honour, an honour," replied the man, eagerly grasping D'artagnan's hand in another hearty shake. The young Gascon would be lying to himself if he denied that his chest swelled two-times it's size in moments such as these, and he would have relished it longer if not for the first signs of sunset catching his eye through the distant trees.

"Monsieur, the light of day…" mentioned D'artagnan, rather apologetically as the man still grasped his forearm.

"Of course! Forgive me, I grow absent-minded in my old age," cried the man, who clapped his hands together. "Let us leave at once! I just…well if only…." The man was looking towards the barn, his brow now creased with worry.

"Sir? What is it?" asked D'artagnan.

"Well it's just that I am alone on the farm. My son is in service for France, and my wife, god rest her soul, left me in the spring of last year," he sighed. "I have to get my two cows fed before sundown, and I would give you the cart and my mule, but my mule, well he's an old man too, and much more grumpy. I am the only one who can reign him in and…"

D'artagnan placed a gloved hand on the man's shoulder, drawing his attention back to him. "Monsieur, I am so sorry to hear of your wife. Why don't I finish your chores and you meet my companions with the cart? I assure you that they will be hard to miss!"

The elderly farmer balked at the suggestion, "Oh no my good fellow, I could not ask that! You are a Musketeer after all! I could not…"

"I _insist _Monsieur," smiled D'artagnan. "I was raised on a farm in Gascony, I know my way around stalls. I would be happy to help"

D'artagnan finally convinced the man to accept his help if he would make haste and ride to meet his brothers on the road; they were undoubtedly wondering where he was by now. D'artagnan resolved to say that the farmer spoke a great deal, and _not _that he had taken two or five wrong turns.

The farmer ushered D'artagnan to the long barn, all the while muttering about winter, and putting water on to boil.

"My cows are inside," said the man, with a warm smile. "I will go and get the cart and hurry to your friends. I trust that once you are all here, you will stay for dinner? I have a stew going."

"Thank-you Monsieur," nodded D'artagnan, his spirits instantly renewed at the promise of stew. "You are most gracious!"

And with that, the elderly apothecary went to fetch his cart, leaving D'artagnan standing in the small barn, breathing in the familiar scents of musky hay. D'artagnan smiled to himself and grabbed a rake off the wall. Indeed there were two cows in their stalls, chewing lazily away on some hay. D'artagnan picked away at the straw lining the stalls, but it all looked brand new. He frowned and turned his attention to the troughs, which were full with water.

"Well what chores are there actually left…"

**!CRACK! **

D'artagnan was never able to finish his sentence as he was cut off by a vicious blow from a shovel that cracked him across the face. The youngest Musketeers dropped like a stone to the ground, where his now battered and broken nose spilled fresh blood on to the straw.

"There are no chores left to be done," answered the man as he leaned against the handle of the shovel. He slowly bent down and opened the young Musketeer's eyelids, confirming his hopes that he was indeed out cold.

"Well now," exclaimed the farmer, standing up and rubbing his hands together. "Lots of choices now, eh Bess?" he smiled and patted the large bovine on the rump. Bess never stopped chewing. "Yes lots of choices now" mused the farmer as he grabbed some lengths of rope.

It a manner of minutes, he had the unconscious D'artagnan bound and was dragging him across the barn was his feet as he whistled a tune that his wife used to sing as she did the washing. The farmer stopped before a large wooden door in the floor, and pried it open to revel a set of stone steps that trailed downwards in to darkness.

The farmer smiled to himself and rubbed the dark circles beneath his eyes. He then crouched down next to the handsome Musketeer and brushed his hair from his shut-eyes. The Gascon never stirred, and blood continued to run lazily down over his chin. "Good lad," mumbled the farmer. He then slung the rope over his shoulder and proceeded to drag the bound Gascon down the stone steps. "One down, and three to go."

**_Oooooooo and there's more creepiness where that came from! ;)_**

**_Please review! -Mzz_**


	4. Chapter 04 --Athos

**Oh my such lovely reviews!**

**THANK_YOU times a million! Please keep them coming because they keep me going on this weird and wild tale ;) …and I'm sorry, I think my chapters are too long :S**

**Onwards!**

* * *

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to ward off a tension headache that had been building over the afternoon. He was tense, and his nerves felt on edge. D'artagnan was late and they were without a cart. As such, they were left with the unfortunate reality of wrapping the rigid body in blankets and preparing it for transport on horseback.

Porthos had tired to tend to the body on his own, but Aramis had insisted on helping, as Athos knew he would. But the usually chatty Musketeer's eerie silence during the grim process, had left Athos further concerned that his friend was transgressing in to painful memories of his past.

The sun was slipping past the trees, and the weather had taken a turn. There was a deep chill in the wind, and Athos was faced with the dilemma that D'artagnan was late, and his other brothers were exposed out on the open road with a corpse wrapped in blankets. Athos sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face. He turned to find Porthos looking at him expectantly for orders. Aramis stood beside him, but he was leagues away, lost in thought.

"We have to move. He must have gotten lost. We will ride in to town and look for him and the Apothecary there, and an inn," grumbled Athos. "The sun is leaving us."

"Told ya the young'un got lost," snorted Porthos with a sly smile. The burly musketeer went about carefully securing the blanketed corpse to the side of his saddle with a series of straps. Aramis looked irritated.

"Athos, are you suggesting we head in to town with a frozen corpse strapped to our horse? Oh that won't look suspicious at all," muttered Aramis, rolling his eyes. Athos was almost a little taken aback by Aramis' sarcasm but let it the matter go considering the circumstances.

"That is exactly what I am suggesting. The body is well wrapped, it looks to be no more than supplies. And I must grimly add that the weather is still on our side in terms of any unfortunate….odors" sighed Athos. Porthos wrinkled his nose, examining the now secured body with dismay.

"'Mis, Athos is right. We have to get a move on. Find D'art at least".

"Well then I'll wait here," snapped Aramis. "He could return and find us gone, and then what?"

Athos was about to argue and demand that Aramis get on his horse, when Porthos slowly approached his brother with a gentleness that always surprised Athos. Aramis looked like a caged tiger as Porthos approached, but his brother never waivered. He gently laid a hand on Aramis' shoulder and squeezed with a reassuring smile."Mis….let's go aye?"

Aramis starred down Porthos for a moment, and then without a word, swung himself up in to the saddle of his horse, all the while avoiding Athos's eyes.

Athos sighed and gave a curt nod to Porthos, who now stood beside his horse, preparing to walk in to town.

It was in that moment that Athos realized how quiet it was on the road. He frowned, hoping to have heard the sound of D'artagnan's horse in the distance. But there was not a sound, not even the crows were speaking.

Athos mounted his horse, and gave a light kick to start towards town with Porthos and Aramis in tow.

* * *

The pace was slow given that Porthos was walking his horse, and the dampness in the air was settling in to their bones. As they neared the tiny village, Athos quickly halted the team with a wave of his hand as he heard a horse in the distance. In the fading light, it was almost impossible to discern who was before them.

"Who goes there?"

A dim glow appeared in the darkness that stretched out before them – _someone must have lit a lamp_, thought Athos. Sure enough, a man approached with his hand outstretched before him holding a lantern that rattled in his grip.

"I go here, sir. I own a farm up this laneway."

"Well what are you doing on the road sir?" asked Porthos from behind Athos' shoulder.

The elderly farmer smiled in the bouncing glow of his lantern. "Looking for you I suppose? I am the apothecary, and I assume that you are Musketeers?" inquired the man, much to the confusion of the trio.

"Indeed sir," replied Athos, as he jumped down from his horse and approached the apothecary. "We are seeking your services. But I believe you have us at a disadvantage. You know more about us then we know of you. Forgive me, have we met in earlier business?"

The man smiled and walked forward with his other hand extended in welcome.

"My apologies my good man. I simply hoped to catch you in passing, as I met your fellow Musketeer."

"D'artagnan? He's here?" piped up Aramis as he tilted his hat back to get a better view of the apothecary.

Porthos just sighed and slouched his tensed shoulders. "Well I suppose the whelp found it after all" he smiled. Athos ignored him, his nerves no less eased despite the kindness of the apothecary.

"Well where is he? Is he hurt, is he…"

"Oh goodness no!" balked the elder man. "He explained to me the tragic circumstances that have brought you here, and that you required a cart. Unfortunately my cart is in disrepair, and so I offered to meet you as I knew the road that you were on his very close to my farm.." The apothecary then broke in to a small fit of wet coughing, and drew his long coat closer to his chest. "Forgive me," he continued, "but I dare say I put the lad to work. He offered to do some chores for me in the barn so that I could meet you and I have been on my own for quite some time now and I ashamed to say that I accepted! He's turning hay for me in the barn. The least I could do was promise you stew and some wine for the trouble!"

Athos silently exhaled the breath he had been holding – D'artagnan was fine, and it was of no surprise that he would have been keen to offer assistance on the farm. Athos gave a wary smile, and tilted his hat towards the man.

"Well that does sound like D'artagnan. Forgive me sir, it seems that the rather tragic circumstances of our visit to the countryside today has made me momentarily lose my manners. My name is Athos, and this is Porthos and Aramis."

"Porthos and…..Ara-mis," repeated the man noticeably struggling with his name. He was quiet a moment before he excitedly introduced himself likewise.

"No need to apologize Athos! No need at all! I am Monsieur Alban," smiled the man, grasping Athos' gloved hands and nearly losing his grip of the lantern as he shuffled forward. "This has been my family's farm for generations. My father was a butcher, but I was much more interested in healing! No come off the road, there is stew, wine and ale in the house and we can lay your poor charge to rest."

Athos gave a quick bow, and Monsieur Alban ushered them up the lane in the dim light of his lantern. Athos could not deny that the tension is his shoulders had eased now that he knew where D'artagnan was, and with the promise of warm food.

The laneway was long and winding but they finally reached Alban's house. Alban was winded, but had insisted on walking. The trio tied up the their horses next to D'artagnan's steed.

"Come, come. Bring the body in the house – my apothecary is on the back".

Alban refused to let the Musketeers remove their muddied boots, despite his abode being quite tidy. Porthos, with his arms laden with the blanketed corpse, apologized profusely, but Alban wouldn't here it. He directed Porthos to the back of the house, where Porthos gently set the body down on a large wooden table. The retired pirate was glad to have his arms free of the gruesome corpse – even wrapped in many blankets, he could still see the eyeless sockets as clear as day in his mind.

Meanwhile, Alban was rushing about the kitchen, stocking a fire in the stove. He returned to where Aramis and Athos were still standing in the foyer, and offered them a glass mug of ale.

"Please," insisted Alban. "I brew it myself and it is the one thing I have actually improved upon in my age."

Porthos now returned to the group and happily accepted the mug and nodded his thanks to their host as he took a drink.

Porthos smiled, and wiped some foam from his mustache. "Athos perhaps you shouldn't have this," warned Porthos with a wink. Athos' penchant for drink was legendary, and in truth the expert swordsmen was thirsty after their day. But he wanted D'artagnan in his sights first before he could relax. And they still needed to procure an inn although there looked to be many empty rooms in Alban's home.

"Merci Monsieur," nodded Athos, "but may I take one to go. I'll meet D'artagnan in the barn – see if he needs a hand. Would you mind if I take a mug to him? I am sure the lad would most appreciate it."

"Of course, please let me join you. I will show you the way and help you with the horses. There is an inn further up the road, but I insist that you stay here. I have plenty of room and I would be most appreciative of such fine company!"

Athos nodded his thanks, and Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder who had still yet to utter a word.

"Porthos, Aramis – please take a seat, make yourself at home. We will be but a moment."

Porthos was positively beaming at the invitation to sit next to a warm stove and enjoy some more ale. Aramis looked exhausted, and only offered Alban a brief nod.

For a moment, Aramis caught Athos' eyes, and the two shared a look in which Aramis conveyed his sadness and weariness to his brother who gave him a reassuring nod.

Porthos pulled out a chair for himself from the table, but not before pulling one out for Aramis, who begrudgingly accepted and sat down – his ale still untouched.

* * *

Athos followed Alban out to his barn – he could hear the soft rustling of the animals in the barn, which was dimly lit with flickering lanterns. Alban walked ahead of him, scuttling about as he did in the kitchen, muttering to himself as he led two of their horses to the side stable. Athos sighed and rolled his eyes– Alban talked incessantly – to himself, to the air, to Athos – to anyone who would and could listen.

"So yes right there," said Alban pointing towards the barn. Athos looked a little startled – to be honest he had long ago tuned out the man's ramblings, and wasn't paying him much mind. He just wanted to give D'artagnan his ale and set about planning their next move.

Athos nodded his thanks, and handed the reigns of his horse to Alban, who took them and went to the side stable. Athos walked towards the dim barn, and called out for D'artagnan but received no answer. He quickened his pace, still gripping the mugs as the ale started to slosh over the brims.

"D'artagnan, I come bearing ale, and Aramis and Por-"

Athos didn't even have time to cry out as the floor beneath his feet gave way!

The mugs flew from his hands as Athos disappeared in a flurry of hay and free fell in to the dank cellar below. He cried out as he felt his ankle shatter as he hit the stone floor and crumpled in to a heap. The glass mugs shattered on the stone around him.

Stunned and in horrible pain, Athos rolled on to his side, breathing hard and feeling the bite of glass in his shoulder. Lying on his back and looking up, Athos tasted copper in his mouth, and above him, saw an open door in the floor that he had just fallen through. Alban appeared moments later, barely visible in the low light. Athos noted that what little he could see of his features did not register any emotion.

"Oh dear, took a tumble there! Best watch your step Athos," muttered Alban, his voice notably lower than before. Alban knelt down next to the opening in the floor, where the trap door had given way under Athos' weight, and observed the Musketeers crumpled form with a disturbing lack of empathy.

"My ankle," gasped Athos through gritted teeth. "I think…"

"It's broken," interrupted Alban, almost seemingly bored by the entire affair, "yes indeed. I imagine I probably have something for that. But in the meantime, you best get comfortable. Your friends will be joining you soon."

Athos breathed hard through his nose, the waves of pain and confusion washed over him. He propped himself up on his elbows, his whole body protesting.

"Monsieur Alban, what is the meaning of this," growled Athos.

Alban only sighed and gave Athos a weary smile. "The meaning of this is my son. It has always been my son! And God has finally answered my prayers –and in such a way!," cried Alban, thrusting his hands above his head in praise. "And to think, I was happy to suffice with the young one's eyes – after all, they are brown…enough," mumbled Alban, his disappointment evident. "But to then lay my eyes upon the brown, beautiful eyes of the very man who led my son to his death? It is surely an act of God, mon ami! My prayers answered."

Athos was too stunned to promptly respond. It took him a moment, in lieu of the pain and Alban's confession for Athos to compose himself. He had so many questions – things had spiraled so quickly. _Aramis? Was it Aramis he spoke of_? All Athos could think to ask Alban, as he stood above him, peering down in to the cellar, was, "Monsieur Alban – what is your son's name?"

Alban's smile quickly dropped – his face going even darker in the low light, and his eyes turning almost black.

"Fransez Alban DuMac," he seethed.

Athos's breath caught in his bruised chest, his stomach dropped to his knees.

Dumac was a new recruit to the Musketeers. Athos hadn't known him well – there was never the opportunity to do so. All he knew was that Dumac was sent with the other new recruits on a training expedition….to Savoy.

Alban watched at the realization and recognition hit Athos like wild boar.

"Yes Athos," sneered Alban. "Fransez was my son. He was all of my pride! And he lay frozen on the ground, mutilated by crows only one week after joking the cursed Musketeers!" he spat.

Athos tried to interject, but Alban wouldn't give him the opportunity.

"And all this years, he has sat in the shed, not being able to see his way in to heaven – the crows stole his eyes!" cried Alban, his eyes brimming with tears in the light of the shaking lantern. "But now, God has answered my prayers. And Fransez will finally be able to see his way home. In the meantime, you should tend to your young friend – I fear I may have hit him too hard," sighed Alban.

He then stood up abruptly, and went to close the open door in the floor, which sent a rain of hay down upon Athos.

The last thing Athos saw was Alban's silhouette as he shut the door, and the last thing he heard was his own voice, bellowing like an animal in to the darkness as it dawned upon him as to what was about to happen next.

"ARAMIS! PORTHOS!," cried Athos, raking his hands upon the stone and glass beneath him. But his voice bounced off of the stone walls of the dank foundation and fell back upon him in utter despair.

Above his head, Alban calmingly fixed the straw on the floor and turned up the wick on his lantern. He smiled to himself, and made a gesture of prayer towards the heavens before shuffling back towards the house.

* * *

_**So much whump on the way…..sooooo much more creepiness ;)**_


End file.
